If It Is To Be
by C.T.Thomas
Summary: Most of us have a plan for how we want our lives to go, but opting for Plan B is often a hell of a lot more fun.


The wailing wakes me earlier than usual. I hurry to my son's bedroom, but he lay in his crib, sleeping sound. The wailing continues and I realize that the sound is distant; I follow the noise to my front door. I decide that my eyes are yet unrested and thus deceive me. Because no one, not even _they_, would be fool enough for this. Autumn in Surrey isn't balmy, and the November chill isn't even the most pressing threat. There are raccoons, birds, possibly wolves prowling about. Teenaged hoodlums looking for a violent rush. Would be thieves casing the area. No, my eyes must be wrong. Therefore, waiting for me on my front porch, red faced, probably wet, and probably hungry, is a cat. Yes, there is a cat wrapped in a blanket in a basket, mewing at me as I hoist the entire contraption through the door. What if the neighbours see this? I thank a god I don't believe in but rage at nonetheless, that I woke before the milkman's arrival.

I take the basket into the living room and place it on the coffee table. I curl into my side of the settee and frown at the possibilities closing around me, an ever-growing list. There is a letter stuck to the blanket, which with a strong pull, lets out a soft slurp and gives way. I can't bring myself to open it just yet as I already know what it must say. There is only one reason that this … _cat _… could have wound up at my front door, and I am mad as hell that a parchment envelope was thought a sufficient medium to break the news. If there was ever a 'best sister' contest, I wouldn't be a likely contender, but have I really been such a vile bitch that no one wants to endure a meeting with me? Something that could have taken less time in person than it did to compose the letter? Unless the letter says nothing more than 'Lily's dead, here raise her _cat_.'

Because while it remains a cat, I can have choices, broad options, a life of my own making.

"What are you doing, Pet?" I jump at my husband's question, and feel my shoulders and neck return to their accustomed defeated slump. I feel surprised that they had taken on a different posture and wrestle myself back into that unfamiliar pose.

"My sister is dead," I say with dispassionate surety. I point using the envelope in my hand, "This is her cat."

I hear Vernon take a breath and open his mouth, but he has never heard me speak this way before: slightly enraged, slightly afraid, mostly numb, and he closes his mouth without a word.

Moments later the room is quiet, Vernon has gone upstairs and taken the black haired cat with him. Don't let a black cat cross your path, very unlucky. I turn to the envelope, knowing I will have to explain myself very soon and wanting the full information at my disposal. The letter confirms my words: my baby sister, Lily, is dead. The letter's full contents should never have been written or read. I should have heard the old man with the beard say them to my face. It galls me that he was here, hours ago, right here, and chose to slink away in the night rather than face me.

A heavy hand rests on my left shoulder, "I'm sorry about your sister, Pet," Vernon's voice is gruff. He is uncomfortable with certain emotions, grief being one of them, but he need not fear a tear-ridden scene. I haven't spoken to Lily in some time, and until I learned she had died – was murdered – I wished that the time between interactions had been longer. I loved Lily, I suppose I love her still, but this grief is old, and there is too much between us for me to truly mourn this loss. Because I could never really live when we were together. I could barely exist. There was never enough air for the two of us, and her lungs were deemed to be far more worthy.

"The police were here?" Vernon questions.

I hear an unbecoming snort escape my throat. He has never been a true believer in my stories about Lily, but he will soon be devout. The police, honestly. I can't do this. I don't want to do this. I don't ever want my son to feel inferior, unworthy, cancerous. I would rather spoil him to the core and have him know with certainty that he is precious to my eye, than have him live through what I lived through. But I don't know how to protect him from that, not with one of _them_ in the house with us.

Because it isn't a cat, I have no choice, limited options, a life I've escaped into.

"They left him on the porch last night," I tell Vernon and hand him the letter.

"That cult she belonged to?" he says, "Why didn't they keep –" he stops talking as the contents of the letter become more engrossing. I wait long minutes for him to reread and digest. I see his eyebrows furrow and know he is going over the part where the old man demands that we obey the 'statute of secrecy,' telling no one about the existence of magic. "These people are crazy," he barks.

"No," I snort, "They're magic."

He starts to argue, the red in his cheeks indicate the early stages of a full tantrum, but he sees my expression and stops. It is beginning to hit him, that everything I told him might have been the complete truth.

Vernon adapts quickly and reverts to his credo: Dursleys first.

"Is it safe?" his voice tight and angry, "For us to be around him. I have him in with Duddy."

"It is physically safe," my answer is honest but ambiguous. Vernon narrows his eyes and will soon lose patience.

I could go to the police. Lily's non-magical records were probably pretty scant. Married in the magical world, and her husband had no real interaction with non-magical people at all, he might not even have a birth certificate. It wasn't likely that their deaths had been non-magically documented. I could go to the police and tell them exactly what had happened: I woke up to find a baby on my doorstep with a note stating that he was my nephew. The infant in Dudley's crib could be anyone, how do I really know he's even Harry Potter?

I could do that, but I am certain it would result in another letter and another morning finding that same baby on my doorstep. This first letter is not friendly. It isn't nasty, but rather condescending: I, an underling, and he the godly overlord. Veiled threats, allusions to the power he holds in abundance and that I must only know in theory, hinting that if I fail in this task he has appointed to me, that I shall disappoint him. No explanation as to how or why he should be in any position to assign tasks to me. But the child is here and he is not, and I have no means to rid myself of him, so I suppose his position and power are obvious.

No, I'm stuck. This home now houses four, and I suspect that at least three of us will suffer for it. Odd things used to happen around Lily, before we found out she was magic. We were always able to dismiss them as tricks of the eye, or lucky chances for the lucky daughter, but this time around, when broken toys are found mysteriously repaired, or when falls from the tall branches of a tree result in a soft bounce, I'll know, and Vernon will know, and then Dudley will know.

You are either magic, or you are not. You cannot learn to become it, you cannot buy it, you cannot have someone magic cast a spell on you that will grant you magic as well. You either are or you are not. You either have, or you have not. And we three will never be, and we will be forced to watch Harry become.

It will be different for Dudley than it was for me. Unlike my own parents, I am already aware of the existence of magic. I will not be enthralled with my special daughter and cast the bland, mundane one aside. I will never think of Dudley as bland or mundane. I will never look at him with eager expectation, waiting for his wondrous display and then frown with disappointment when he has no rabbit to pull from his hat. He will never feel like Vernon and I love Harry more because he has magic and Dudley does not. But he'll feel the pain of not having it just the same. Hopefully this time around, the old man himself won't show up at the house. We already know about magic, we don't need anyone to come and explain. So maybe Dudley won't work all day to find his courage, "What about me?" and be looked at with such kindness and pity. Because that's what it is, that's what it was: pure pity. Poor little girl with her magicless life. How do they survive, those muggles? That's what they call us non-magicals, _muggles._ The dictionary defines their thoughts on us precisely: 'Muggle: a common person, esp. one who is ignorant or has no skills.' It isn't quite like being called a Gubba, but it's certainly up there with Bule.

No, Dudley will never endure that particular humiliation; he will never watch his parents' faces drop with disappointment when they find out he has no magic. You're magical to me, Duddy, but Harry, he's actually magical. Wonderful.

It's time for Vernon to fully understand, to be crushed.

"Do you remember reading fairytales, Vernon, when you were a child? Dragon stories, unicorns, magic wands, flying broomsticks, ghosts?"

Vernon pales.

It should be wonderful, shouldn't it? To know that magic is real. That the things you dream of, fantasize about, truly exist. But how can it be wonderful? Knowing that you can never experience it, knowing that it is out there for other people but will forever be denied you. I am not a genius. There are true geniuses in the world and I am not one of them. While it would be nice to be a genius, not being one isn't heinous because geniuses don't get shipped off to a colony where they can be brilliant together and keep their discoveries and inventions and thoughts and creations to themselves. They haven't packed up the David, and King Lear, and the Theory of Relativity, and heart transplants, and microchips, and unfathomable numbers of other works, and hidden them away so us regular folk can't enjoy them and be enhanced and enriched by them. No, genius is wonderful because it's for everyone. You may not be one of them, but you are still a part of it.

It's too depressing, really, to know that all of this exists and is real, and that you will never get to experience it. There is no parents' day at Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry, and if there was, I'm not sure non-magical parents could even attend. Muggles are magically repelled from the castle, you see. Lily went to school in a castle.

Yes Dudley, there are unicorns and dragons and giants and trolls. There are potions that can fix broken bones or grow new ones, spells that can turn a desk into a pig. There are ways to teleport across the world in a matter of seconds. There are goblins and sirens and nymphs and phoenixes. There are flying broomsticks and –

"Dudley," Vernon growls, pale to grey now, it seems he understands and is feeling it.

"Isn't magical."

Dursleys first. We're not opposed to helping others, but we're not shirt off our back people, unless we have another couple of shirts. Dursleys first, everyone else second. Therefore, protect Dudley.

"We can keep it out of our house," Vernon says, "None of those books, none of those games, none of those movies."

We engage in a serious discussion about cultivating an atmosphere of abuse toward Harry and anything magical, so when Dudley learns that Harry has magic, he'll recoil rather than yearn. It almost sounds like a plan. We have a four-bedroom home: the master suite, Dudley's room, a guest room, and the room we had hoped would be for our second child. Perhaps this could become Dudley's playroom, we could convert the cupboard under the stairs for Harry. Dudley could be made to understand that something is wrong with Harry, and when that something is discovered to be magic, well thank goodness you don't have magic! We'll have to home-school him, or find some way to influence his schoolmates parents against introducing their sons and thus Dudley to magical ideas he might begin to dream of.

Except, Dursleys first. This may spare Dudley a lifelong disappointment, but where will it leave him? How will he treat other people? How will he learn to be a good man? How can he be great if we stifle his imagination? It's already going wrong and he's only a baby; I am already spoiling him in response to my own disappointments. Is that what we want for him? To be one of those spoiled brats who grow up to be rotten people who hate their parents?

Dursleys first. We want Dudley to be happy, smart, healthy, well adjusted, confident, capable. We want him to love the non-magical world, we want him to hate injustice, not people. We want him to be happy that Harry has magic but not feel bad that he does not. But how?

"Well it comes to Harry then, doesn't it?" Vernon's eyes gleam with cold steel. "The idea of magic is great, vast. But we've done some pretty amazing things, us non-magical people, things maybe they haven't done?"

I think back. Lily never mentioned a magical community living on the moon or travelling to other solar systems. She never even mentioned magical movies or theatre. Do they even have bicycles? Stereo systems? Trigonometry? Bunsen burners? Levi's jeans? The Beatles?

"We'll need to find a way to learn about magic," Vernon nods to himself, "I don't want to start showing our boys the wonders of the non-magical world only to find out that it was really done by magicians."

I agree, "It's wizard, by the way. Witches and wizards."

"Humph."

It strikes me, what he's just said, 'our boys.' Because he's right. It isn't about convincing Dudley that being non-magical is just as good as being a wizard. He has to know it, know it intrinsically, feel it, live it. And for that to happen, Harry is going to have to know it just as intimately.

"Can we do this?" I wonder aloud, will they even let us? And how could they stop us? They dumped him here, left him at our doorstep so we couldn't refuse. It strikes me that they aren't coming back. They are never going to give us a chance to say 'no, you take him.' I begin to wonder about the ramifications of that. They won't allow us the opportunity to get rid of him, but it isn't just about that. If they never return, then they can never _take_ him back.

They think we're going to abuse him.

They think if they return they'll witness the evidence of our first plan – Harry, wretchedly deprived in the cupboard. And if they see that, how could they possibly leave him with us? No, they aren't coming back here. Not until it's time for parchment sealed with a lime green embossed H to arrive and rescue him from his deplorable muggle life.

I remember the only instance where my parents weren't awed with magic and magical ideas. Mother had asked why non-magical people weren't allowed to know about this? Why the Statute of Secrecy? Why do non-magicals who witness magic or somehow become aware of the magical world have their memories removed? Lily answered with nonchalance, with the air of humble superiority magical people adopt when interacting with us mere mortals. She spoke about the various anti magic campaigns of the past, witch burnings and other events that history suggests had little to do with actual magic, but her main point came to this: If muggles knew about magic, they would want magical solutions for all of their problems. I understood then that she had given us the standard response, the pretentious piece of crap that witches and wizards believed. Because us feeble-minded, mundane, unskilled, pathetic muggles can't solve our own problems, and would soon turn against them with violence if they refused to fix them for us.

Because the magical world is in such _wonderful _condition that they saw fit to dump little Harry on our muggle doorstep, the only place believed to be safe for him. And hey, didn't my little sister just get murdered? And her husband? And countless others? Something about a war and a psychopath?

I begin to shiver. I realize that the magical reasoning is arrogant and small-minded and nonetheless accurate. But it's accurate because they've made it so. They look at us as lesser beings, as if compared to them we're useless. Why wouldn't we begin to expect them to fix our problems? I rub my arms against a non-existent chill and force myself to face this. I've been looked at with pity and accepted it as rightful and deserving.

We non-magical people are not to be pitied, and it's about damn time I realized it. They think we're small, useless, muggles. And dammit, I'm not going to feed their beliefs. Not anymore.

Harry is going to be the best bloody wizard the old man and the damn castle has ever seen. He isn't going to suffer for having been raised by non-magical people, no, he is going to excel because of it.

I clear my throat and take a deep breath, "How soon can it be done?"

"Not long I expect. The uppers at Grunnings will know a good lawyer," Vernon frowns to himself. "Are you sure, Pet? If we're going to do this, you must know it's bigger than magic versus non-magical."

I know. Harry landed on our doorstep because this is the safest place for him. Blood magic, the old man wrote, wards. If there weren't people wanting him dead I am certain they wouldn't have bothered making use of this, of us. We'd be an afterthought at a funeral, Harry's magical guardian holding him up for a final goodbye.

"And if we're going to do this, we're going to go all the way, and do this thing right."

I know. Dursleys first, and little number four has some serious enemies. We can do this. I know we can.

I use to think that if only Lily were gone, maybe then I could really be alive. Turns out, I was right.


End file.
